Ulraunt's Ward
by Late to the Party
Summary: As narrated by a self-styled protagonist, this tale that takes a slightly different approach to the Bhaalspawn Saga. Focusing on his time in Candlkeep, his journey involves less walking and more art, song and reading, liaising and dreaming. One might almost call him 'Ulraunt's Ward'. AU.


**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.**

A/N: I actually have another fic with the same title, which I had begun in June 2012, though I never got further than 560 odd words. I may finish that one day. In the meantime, enjoy!

(I'm aware that this piece is very sparse on names, but it's intended to be more about imagery than pinpoint detail, but enough from me. Bonus points to anyone who picks up on the Planescape: Torment reference. =).)

* * *

Nestled Within

"Allow me to tell you a story." Addressing the painted statue before him, the half elf offered the faintest of smiles. His hair, somewhat cropped or perhaps sheered, fell angled across his cheek. Habitually, he tucked it beside his slightly pointed ear; it fell loose.

The statue didn't answer.

"Once, long ago, there was a man. Perhaps it was not so long ago for you, but for me, some moments feel like a lifetime, others blur, and some join together, seemingly timeless and fading. This was the last. This man was a wanderer, a traveller, one who had fought all sorts of evil, but the evil without was never as insidious as the evil within.

"That man thought he could change the realms, believed evil could be overcome. There was a question posed, once, by a great witch: 'what can change the nature of a man?'; that wanderer believed the nature of a man could be sculpted, moulded, that even embedded, seeded evil, could be overcome through careful nurture, patience, and the right environment and upbringing.

"We'll see if he was right."

The half elf took stock of the statue. Its proportions were perfect, the best he had ever seen. The tones and shading, even the lighting was exact. He stepped back, then circled around it, then finally drew up the three-legged stool, ignoring the easel, small vials and the inks and paints. At the easel's feet sat stoppered pots, mortars and pestles, and the scent of various ingredients rose up, some acrid, some reeking of the planes. He leaned back, his boots crossing at the ankle.

"There was once a great fortress, set beside the sea, its towering walls nestled against the cliffs. This fortress held a martial order sworn to protect the fortress' hall, for you see, the fortress itself had been built to protect the very same. A library so vast that its halls of knowledge were known throughout the region. Candlekeep was its name.

"I am sure that such names mean little to you, but for the sake of simplicity, we shall use them as points of reference; the names themselves are not important, not like our names, but we are getting ahead of ourselves. Candlekeep became the residence of this wanderer, his refuge. For he had made many enemies in the course of his travels, as well as some friends. Over the course of these travels, he offended a red drake, a vindictive wyrm, broke into the temple of a god and slaughtered the priestesses there. Indeed, one might say that he was something of a busybody, a meddler, interfering in affairs that stretched far beyond him.

"But like so many, his motivations were not quite so readily divulged, and just like so many, he paid for his indiscretions, as shall we all. To those at Candlekeep, he was known as 'Gorion'. After storming that temple, he arrived there with three half elves in tow, one of which was myself. As to the other two, their names were 'Khalid' and 'Jaheira'; do not concern yourself over committing them to memory, for they do not play any further part in our tale.

"Gorion was, what one might call, an agent. He belonged, along with Khalid and Jaheira, to an organisation known as the 'Harpers'; meddlesome individuals whose ideology is better suited to the planes. They sought to bring 'balance', toppling anyone and everyone they felt was malignant to what they perceived as the 'natural order'. Naturally, that included me, but Gorion's idealism was such that he believed he could bring balance to my nature, and through me, to the realms. In a way, he was right. But again, we are jumping ahead.

"My upbringing was… educational. With access to the widest collection of tomes, I could not have asked for more; indeed, such knowledge was overwhelming, and absorbing it proved troublesome. Gorion was versed in the Art, and over his journeys, he had amassed quite a fortune, as most who are successful in that walk of life seem to. Still, much of it was lost, donated to the Harpers, and to Candlekeep, but enough remained that we could have wanted for nothing, had he not followed the austere aesthetic laid down by the library scholar-monks and enforced by Ulraunt, who served as a lord and governor over the fortress grounds and keep.

"You may be forgiven for believing I was a sheltered child, for Candlekeep was ruled with silence, at least inside the halls, and children were not welcome. I was just a babe, able to take its first steps, when I arrived there. I knew no other home, and I did not understand the discussions and vibrant debates that occurred within the tavern, often between the scholarly monks, or the grumblings of the guards. I understood only that I was there to learn, to respect Candlekeep's halls, and I had been given a gift beyond any coin.

"I had no mother, but a woman by the name of Phlydia took me under her wing. She was younger then, but still in the middle of her years, too old to bear children of her own. She, and several others tutored me, but Ulraunt became my master. I studied under him since the moment I could talk. He had no patience for the young, and even less for ill discipline. I would sit, and he would lecture; I would read, and he would pour through tomes, organising the day-to-day running of the keep, arranging and accommodating visiting dignitaries, nobles and their families. I sat, and I listened. I sat, and I recited, and if I did not learn my lessons well, I would stand, unable to sit.

"It might seem an odd choice that Ulraunt himself would take on such a task, for he never approved of Gorion's choice to bring me there. Indeed, he did not trust Gorion to rear me, for Gorion, for all his worldly travels, had not had the presence of mind to dedicate himself for decades to the tomes, as my other tutors had. Ulraunt also instructed the younger readers, some unwanted nobles' bastards, others young scholars somehow able to purchase entrance, or find a patron willing to sponsor them. But I was the only child."

The half elf stopped, and considered the brush laid flat beside the palette. "You may wonder how it is that I came to my calling, but there are more to tomes than just words. Many tomes held maps, others were illuminated, and at an early age, almost as soon as I was taught my letters, I began to draw. I drew what was around me; later I drew my dreams. Ulraunt saw this, and rather than take a belt to me, he directed me towards others; they nurtured this. I spent time in the infirmary, watching the priests as they set bones, bound sprains, and chanted their incantations. More than that, I saw the body. I poured through tomes on anatomy, though these were few, even in a library so great. I learned about pigments, and all the while, Phlydia taught me the Art.

"I was not a student adept at study; it did not come easily to me, not in the way it came to them. I learned to recite, but that was not what I enjoyed. I learned the great histories, the sagas of the small and great, and these I recited, and sang. Ulraunt did not banish me from his study, but put poetry before me, and this I sang to him. I sang to Phlydia, and to any who requested it. I did not know I was singing at first; I simply read the words, feeling them on their vellum, their paper. I could not sing as the priests with their chants, and the chanting of the readers as they recited the prophecies of Alaundo seemed dull to me, though they had a melody of their own. In time, I learned these same prophecies, chanting them, singing them. In some ways, I was Ulraunt's protégé.

"I would illuminate while I sang, decorating the words that I had infused in my heart. I would draw what I imagined to be the figures of legend, the gods at their war, the men and women who crossed swords with demons; the beautiful nymphs and celestials. These were only approximations, but they tugged at those around me.

"In my ninth year, Gorion left Candlekeep and returned in my tenth. He brought with him a girl, Imoen was her name. She was a couple of years younger than me, but already a wild and unruly child. Gorion did not live long after bringing her. Ulraunt, though vexed by his choice, chose not to eject the girl, honouring Gorion's wish. The healers could not save him; later, I learned it was poison, a glancing blow from a crossbow's bolt. For all his magic, Gorion had fallen, as do so many others who enter that life. Ulraunt warned me that it was a lesson: meddling in the affairs of others carries a cost.

"Yet, as he had with me, he tried to temper Imoen's will. She found herself standing a lot. Phlydia was kinder, but she could do little to calm her. While she pranked others in retaliation, crying out for attention and affection, for some reason, she left me alone. We shared Ulraunt's study, and so often, her inquisitive nature found herself peering over my shoulder, asking 'Whatcha doin'?', or 'Oooh, she's pretty'. She liked it when I recited the stories, and that seemed the only thing that would cause her to still, at least until it was finished. Then she would ask a barrage of questions, and ask and demand another tale. Ulraunt would fix her a look at such moments, but she learned to swallow instead of not caring. In her former days outside Candlekeep, she had developed a knack for flinching things that were not her own, and this, even more than her pranks, saw her standing red faced in front of Ulraunt. No one, not even Phlydia, interceded for her after the first few times.

"Is this boring you?" He ran his gaze up and down the statue. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Many of the tales I read overlooked the upbringing of their protagonist; they would tell of their origin, perhaps even their conception, but so much was ignored. Imoen taught me that, asking what it was like when they were young, if they had a cat. Imoen found a cat, one of the kitchen cats, from a litter of kittens. Ulraunt allowed her to keep it, and it lived in her room and his study in its own basket. Does that surprise you? It was one of the few things she cared for, enough that she would behave for fear of it being taken away. Did it have a name? Of course it did, but it plays no part in our tale.

"I respected Ulraunt. Did you know that? Respect; it is such an important attribute between a teacher and their student. Imoen developed a fledging respect, but only later did it grow into affection. Yes, affection; it was something that we received little of, though Phlydia and our other tutors, some of them, did their best in their own way. Can a parent be replaced? Gorion was never a father to me, not in the sense that other children have fathers. He was there, more like an uncle, or an often absent grandfather. After he died, Ulraunt allowed me less time to myself, guiding me in my studies more than he had previously. Perhaps it was the age I was at; perhaps it was to keep me from thinking.

"I began to dream. I had always dreamt, but these dreams were different. I saw a raven, and I drew it, painted it, and the black clouds and far-off fire beyond the horizon, the cities and rivers of blood. I drew the tears; my own face, frozen, screaming, as if my very soul was struggling.

"Ulraunt eventually found these. I kept them, locked up in my satchel, bound tightly away from my other parchment. He asked me very simply, but always with that sternness, though this was sharper than usual, how long I had been having the dreams. I told him they had begun with Gorion. He seemed to accept it, then surprisingly, he laid a hand on my shoulder. I do not recall Ulraunt ever touching me before then. I must have been in my fourteenth year.

"My studies went on, and Phlydia grew older, but she was still capable. She taught me more and more about the Art, and I learned that I could copy her gestures and symbols and syllables, but this was only a pale imitation. I found, instead, that I could replicate the effect, by gazing into the heart of what she was doing. I drew the Weave, painted the strands, the symbols, the syllables. I translated their pitch, using my own voice to sing them into the painting, the pigments ground from the same materials she used in her spells. Sulphur, crushed fire-beetle shells, even the water. Then I tried this with the priests' incantations. When I sang to the painting, I felt the Weave, and I could focus my own reservoir onto it. I had always known I had a reservoir within, but it was untapped, and unconscious. I wove it in with my singing, my chanting, and my painting.

"Imoen tried to use my sketches, once, but they seemed to work only for me. Later on, I would name each piece, and I felt a connection. Had Ulraunt known that I was using the materials found in the Art's spells, he might have put a stop to it.

"When we were older, Imoen asked me to paint her. I had made drawings, sketches, even paintings of others, even visiting nobles' daughters, and a few of these decorated Ulraunt's study, as did some of my illuminated tomes, but Imoen had always been shy about it. She thought it was a fun idea, and I had drawn her cat, now no longer a kitten, for her more than once, and her with her kitten, but never had I painted her. So, alone, in one of the keep's turrets, far from the rest of the halls, I did.

"We expected Ulraunt to be furious if he ever found out, but if he did, he never commented. Imoen treasured that first painting; I had dressed her as the nobles' daughters, in the same winter fashion. It was then I asked something of her; I wasn't sure how she would respond, and she herself seemed uncertain. I wasn't sure if she would slap me, or if she would flush crimson, or be thrilled about it. I explained that I had no one to study for my sketches, only the anatomy books. Confusion held her until I carefully elaborated. The nymphs and dryads I had drawn years earlier were not proportioned, but dreamlike; the essence of what they were, not corporeally accurate. Finally, she understood, and as it dawned on her, she herself wasn't sure whether to thump me or hide her face. Abruptly, she turned shy, and asked if I thought she was pretty; I had, after all, painted other visiting girls. I smiled at her and hesitantly held her hands. She smiled back.

"I made many, many sketches of her, painted her from every angle, in sunlight and starlight, at dusk, at dawn, from the reflection of a bowl of water. I painted her in a hundred shades, in dozens of clothes and none at all. One day, I sculpted her.

"The nature of a painting is limited; it is flat, contained, and these constraints allow discipline. But it was never enough. I began by wetting the parchment, almost by accident, as I thought of the great statue of Alaundo at the entrance to the hall. I had crumpled up the rag I used to smear the oils, and the parchment stuck to it. I saw the outline of a nose. It seems like a strange thing to see, but it had the same line, that slight upturned curve and I saw the very tip of Imoen's, and I just kept on. My first statuette was just bigger than my hand, and very crude, but Imoen was delighted. She clapped her hands together, and asked me if this little model was there as a guide for a full sized one, much as my sketches were for her portraits. I hadn't thought of it that way, but I agreed. She threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek; then realised we were late for Ulraunt, and we both dropped everything and ran.

"I think he knew I had found myself a studio in one of the turrets, since, for all the care we took, no one had seen us within the halls or the grounds. He would often look at us, as if scrutinising our very souls, but he never commented. Perhaps he believed us lovers, but I think he would have known if we were."

Stretching, he flexed his boots and his back. The statue stared back at him.

"By now we had heard of the so-called 'Iron Crisis' affecting the Sword Coast. We had had a few visits, but those had grown consistently fewer. The Anchev family, who headed the 'Iron Throne', a mercantile cartel in Baldur's Gate, which was our nearest city, were the last to visit for some time. Sarevok, the son, would later go on to become Grand Duke of the city, the other four dukes falling as inner turmoil struck the city. After Sarevok's visit, Imoen set out, quitting Candlekeep. She wouldn't have gone, but wanderlust had gripped her, and she was bored. Hearing of how many problems there were outside our sheltered walls, how they would probably reach us, and how the monks did nothing frustrated her. I shared her frustrations, but Ulraunt would never have let me go. Phlydia, by now, was extremely forgetful, and most of our childhood tutors did not have many more years left.

"In typical fashion, Imoen snuck out of the grounds, scaling one of the outer walls, and neatly landing. I had expected her to build a plank bridge across to one of the trees, but she didn't feel like lugging long bits of wood around. I tossed down her pack; tucked inside was a set of pouches. Gorion hadn't left me a pauper, and since he had brought Imoen here, it seemed only right that she had a share; it wasn't as if I was using much of it. My only expenses were for brushes and other materials. With a cheerful wave, she disappeared into the underbrush.

"Ulraunt was understandably furious when he found out. He demanded to know if I had known anything about it, and I replied that Imoen often went to gather berries from outside the walls, and then, I added, that I occasionally joined her, since I needed the red for my pigments. He fixed me a long look, and for a moment, I was certain he would take his belt to me, though it had been years since that had happened. Then he waved his hand, irritably dismissing it as folly; he expected she would be back as soon as the cold set in. I asked if he intended to send a search party; she might have tripped, or slipped, or found herself cornered by a hungry wolf.

"'If she has, there is little to be done.' He closed the matter, but I know that Hull and a few of the other guards _did_ set out and search the surrounding region for her, and they needed permission to leave the keep. Sometimes, one of them might occasionally travel to the nearby town of Beregost, which was most likely where Imoen had headed. It was, after all, something denied to us, as we were 'too young'."

"A delegation from Amn were set to arrive, and Rieltar Anchev, father of Sarevok, was there to negotiate with them. The Iron Crisis had worsened, and tensions between Amn and Baldur's Gate were at breaking point. These troubles barely touched us, but like everyone else, we needed food and supplies, and from my place at Ulraunt's side, I saw the rising figures for myself. Demand had outstripped supply, and prices were exponential. As a neutral location known for its peace, Candlekeep seemed to offer a fitting table for talks. I, as I had become accustomed to and was expected of, accompanied Ulraunt and welcomed our guests. Then I returned to my makeshift studio.

"Imoen had sent letters back, briefly detailing she was doing well, and the date she had sent them, and offering snippets of news. Most of the letters didn't get through, as they seemed quite disjointed and referred to events she had obviously spoken of in previous letters. She had found herself in the Friendly Arm Inn, and had the choice between Beregost or Baldur's Gate, and taking the latter, she had wondered about booking passage on a ship. There were many places to see, but she had yet to explore the city. She wondered about Waterdeep, Neverwinter, or Athkatla, Amn's capital, if she could find a ship willing to take her there. She had a plan, and she used some of her portraits to gain an audience with wealthy merchants, and nobles. She set herself up as an agent, and would offer commissions, and all they had to do was visit Candlekeep. Then, she managed to somehow acquire a pair of magic mirrors that should allow us to see each other, and I could paint using it. She explained airily that she had been chatting to a nice old mage who could make things and traded in this and that, and she remembered how I had painted her using her reflection, and wondered if he could make a similar bowl. I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about this, and a currier would still have to deliver the painting, but I couldn't leave her with nothing.

"Unfortunately, the city erupted before we could really begin this enterprise. Rieltar was murdered by the Amnish delegation, and Sarevok swore to avenge the betrayal, and seized control of the other mercantile cartels as soon as he was elected Grand Duke. The other Grand Dukes were also assassinated by 'Amnish spies', and Baldur's Gate became rife with suspicion. Imoen made herself scarce and I did not hear from her until much later.

"When she did finally write, she confirmed what I had heard via Ulraunt. Sarevok had emptied most of the city, conscripting most able bodies and using the city's coffers to hire mercenaries. He had amassed a large naval force, and a host that swept down through Beregost to Nashkel, Amn's northernmost outpost this side of the Cloudpeak Mountains. The nobles kept on with their day to day life, those which were still able, but most of the mercantile companies had collapsed. Food was rare, and imports from the northern cities had to be brought in. The bandits plaguing the roads had mysteriously vanished, and iron had once again begun flowing. Sarevok had presented the city with a new mine, which he had expanded using conscripted and criminal labour. Any who broke the laws were pressed into service. Furthermore, leaving the city without a pass was forbidden.

"Imoen had somehow avoided most of this, using her charm and fledging connections to skirt around the nobles and roam from one estate to the next. She had befriended the wizard Ragefast, and helped him out with some troubles involving a nymph he had acquired. 'Her name's Abela, and she's so pretty.', Imoen had written. However she passed herself off, it seemed to have worked.

"We saw the ships as they sailed around us from the towers. I counted at least fifty of them, of various sizes. Some were merchants outfitted for war, some were built for war. I made sketches of the flotilla, committing details to memory and one ship especially caught my eye. I didn't know her name, but she had three masts, and a gilded figurehead at her prow; her sides rose up and fell, in an egg-like arc, if an egg had been sculpted without breaking. I was surprised Sarevok had not conscripted the monks, as an envoy from the Flaming Fist, led by one Officer Vai, arrived at our gates and demanded all our 'fighting men' enlist in their cause. Traditionally, we were aloof from such matters, but they would not have let us unscathed if we refused. All of our guards, perhaps twenty, left with her."

He took a long breath, then a draught from the leather bottle from his belt.

"The dreams I had grew worse. Ulraunt had little time for such things, even if I had mentioned it to him; he was too preoccupied with preserving what remained if Sarevok's host should fail, or deserters found themselves at our walls. You know, perhaps it was just as well that I never drew Gorion. I wonder how differently things might have played out had Sarevok seen that face, though older." The half elf's hand flicked towards his right. "Would he have remembered, I wonder? Well, 'Gorion' was not a name known to him, and without a face, it did not matter. There was such tension in the air; fear and enforced calm, a tranquillity that tried to assert itself and failed. It is strange, I think, just how we ended up here, don't you? From a dream I saw this place, this abyssal realm. I saw a throne, empty, with a skull ringed with tears set before it. A temple to murder. I saw the green clouds, the emerald fire. All the carnage passed me by, but I saw the raven in my dreams, symbols of death, and the dreams called me to it. I painted all of it, painted it with pigments, with song, infusing it all with this reservoir within me. And then… I stepped through.

"It opened, opened a realm of dreams, but the dreams were only manifestations of a dead god's will. I saw the statues, the rows and rows of statues, the vast coliseum, those arches and their alcoves. I saw Sarevok, Imoen, myself. So many more, those I did not know. And now, here we are."

A chuckle arose from him, dry, low. "I painted them. I painted them all. Dozens of them, hundreds. Those that still lived. I watched as the statues crumpled, as the essence returned. Yes, that reservoir of essence. I finally understood. And here, in this – pocket – plane, I can sculpt and sing with it, and now Sarevok's effigy sits right over there. Shall I, as the dreams whisper, take a knife fashioned of bone, and pierce his heart with it? No, for that is not who I am. Do you see, my dear 'father', what it is I have fashioned in its stead? A bowl. A bowl to collect their essence; you see how it gathers at my feet, these channels, these rivets. Watch, as the essence bleeds out from them; I have captured their image, their soul in these paintings. You see how the essence gathers at your great monument, where your sigil lies? Shall I siphon it off for myself, or shall I let it bleed? Yes, 'father', their essence shall bleed into the abyss, if I so wish it. Look around you; see the inscriptions on these walls, these illuminated words and symbols, this story. Now we shall change the ending.

"You thought to sway me with those visions of horror, of nightmare? To drive me mad? I have for myself my own sigil; a brush, a voice, a song. I shall reshape this place, reshape your throne. You should have left me alone. What's that? I can't do this? Oh, but you can speak to me in dreams, even dead as you are? I very much think I can, and we're about to find out just how far a demigod's will stretches in the planes. After all, it _is_ your essence I'm imbuing these with."

He rose to his feet.

"And now, father, witness your plans crumble; you shall remain dust. Your seven strongest scions even now gather at Saradush, but the conflict has already been decided here. One final brushstroke, one final song. Your saga is at an end."

The half elf snapped the brush, and the colours began to drain into the large, empty bowl, the painted statues ringing the rounded chamber frozen where they stood. The statue before him seemed to rage, but it could not move; then it began to crack.

"Oh, 'father', you didn't really believe that I would allow your effigy to remain? Did you forget where I studied? You will be forgotten." He tapped the bowl thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shall paint new portraits with this. Not quite the legacy you intended, but as they say, Art is murder."

A moment later, as the dust settled, a Solar appeared.


End file.
